


lights up

by tonystarktrash



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Coma, Comic Book Science, F/M, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Mind Control, Mind Manipulation, Near Death Experiences, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, One Shot, POV Pepper Potts, Parent Pepper Potts, Parent Tony Stark, Possession, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Sentient Infinity Stones (Marvel), Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Lives, Tony Stark-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:53:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28037997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tonystarktrash/pseuds/tonystarktrash
Summary: But then he blinks, brown eyes warm with love for her, smile bright, and Tony is back — and Pepper thinks that she must be imagining things, acting ridiculous. Because she has him back, shouldn’t she be thankful? He had been dead —dead. So, it’s just like her brain to try to create a problem when there isn’t one. Tony is fine. Isn’t he?
Relationships: Pepper Potts/Tony Stark
Comments: 6
Kudos: 33





	lights up

Something is wrong with Tony. Tony has changed. Tony is unfamiliar. Sometimes, Pepper looks into his eyes and he seems to look right through her, as if he’s somewhere else, somewhere where he’d never met Pepper Potts, let alone married her. But then he blinks, brown eyes warm with love for her, smile bright, and Tony is back — and Pepper thinks that she must be imagining things, acting ridiculous. Because she has him back, shouldn’t she be thankful? He had been dead — **dead.** So, it’s just like her brain to try to create a problem when there isn’t one. Tony is fine. Isn’t he?

These nagging suspicions plague her dreams. Tonight, her dreams start out pleasant. She and Tony float on their backs on the lake, looking up at the sky while Tony points out clouds and tries to convince her that _that one looks like a Kitchen-Aid mixer, Pep_. But then his gauntleted hand is wrapped around her throat, the metal freezing cold, Infinity Stones glowing sinisterly as he chokes the life out of her, her hyoid bone snapping like a brittle twig. 

Pepper wakes with a gasp, hand flying to her throat, attempting to wrench away Tony’s metal-clad fingers, though it’s hopeless — her vision is fading, she’s dying — who is going to take care of Morgan, how are they going to explain to her that her father murdered her mother? Pepper’s shaking fingers smooth over her unmarked throat, smearing through a greasy sheen of cold sweat. It was just a dream. She looks over to Tony’s side of the bed, wanting to reassure herself that he’s here, Tony — who has never raised a hand against her, who would rather die than hurt her.

Rather than the snoring form of her husband, all Pepper sees is a slight depression where he had been. She reaches out, pressing her hand against the mattress. There’s still some warmth there, he can’t have been gone for long. She exhales shakily, pressing her hands against her face, fingernails curling against her skin.

But there are some things that are hard to deny. Tony had died. Pepper’s eyelids flutter, not wanting to recall, but unable to resist. Her eyes close. She had knelt on the battlefield outside of the destroyed Avengers compound, listening to the horrible sound of her husband’s rattling final breath. Her vision had been suddenly so sharp that she could have sworn that she saw each individual red blood cell that trickled out of the corner of Tony Stark’s mouth, tracking down the ruined, charred flesh of the right side of his face. She had watched the life fade from him completely, leaving behind a husk that could **not** be her husband.

Time had stopped. Literally. Stephen Strange had stopped time, the green Infinity Stone pulled from the back of Tony’s gauntleted hand, its malignant glow filtering through Strange’s shaking fingers.

Tony’s heart had stopped for so long, once she and Stephen had dragged him back to what had remained of the med-bay, Pepper had been convinced that there was no hope. She had cried out, unable to stop herself, as the defibrillator pads had been pressed to Tony’s bare chest, the arc reactor lightless between them, the ruined suit torn away from his body by the sheer strength of Pepper’s force of will, she hadn’t even felt the metal tear easily through the flesh of her fingers. Tony had sustained too much damage, his skin too badly burned, he couldn’t survive another shock, no matter how brief and necessary it was. The flatline blare on the monitor had kept up for five individual charges, and then a weak jump — his heart arrhythmic, but pumping blood. Pepper’s fingers, stained with her blood and the ash of their enemies, pressed feather-light against his chest, feeling it rise and fall, hearing his wheezing gasps, her bloody fingerprints vivid against the glass of his reactor as it had flickered back to life.

What followed that is still a blur, Pepper’s memory having blocked out the trauma in a weak effort of self-preservation, not wanting to recall a time when she had been certain that her husband would never wake up. Helen Cho had been there, as had King T’Challa’s sister, Shuri. Together, the two women had encased Tony in a frightening looking glass cage, fervently planning how to rebuild the flesh Tony had lost to the Infinity Stones, but before they could do that…

Pepper groans aloud, lying back on the bed, grabbing at a pillow to press against her face, as if she can smother away the memory. But she can’t. She can remember the fluorescent lights glinting off the stream of metallic nanites flowing from the casing of Tony’s arc reactor — she had instantly recalled the schematics and holograms Tony had shown her months ago, his shit-eating grin when had told her that he had done a bit of self-surgery while she and Morgan had gone out to the grocery store, installing nanites into his false sternum (“And I only blacked out for like half a second, Pep!”) — the nanites trailed slowly over the blackened, cracked skin of his right shoulder, suddenly flared out and encased his entire right arm up to the junction of his shoulder and his chest. The arm had been, naturally, red and gold — as if Tony, despite being unconscious and near-death, was capable of informing the nanites of the colors he had wanted his new arm to be. Helen and Shuri had tried everything to peel the nanites away, wanting to at least amputate Tony’s arm, to avoid infection — but it had been futile. Following the creation of his new arm, Tony had been in a coma for a month. Encased in glass, he had slept, and Pepper had sat beside him. She had gnawed her nails down until her fingers bled, listening to Shuri, Strange, and Helen discuss Tony’s ‘unusual’ brain activity, watching them puzzle over MRIs and CTs, and watching the lights.

The lights — further evidence that Tony is not the same. Pepper pulls the pillow away from her face, resting it behind her head, green eyes fixing on the ceiling dimly visible above her. She should get out of bed and find her husband, coax him back to bed. She lets her eyes unfocus, and soon, there are multicolored lights trailing over the ceiling.

She had nearly screamed when it had happened the first time. Her hand had been resting against the surface of what she tried not to call Tony’s sarcophagus, staring intently down at his face — what was visible of it, anyways, the right side of his head had been wrapped in damp looking green bandages for days now, as was the right side of his torso. In sleep, Tony’s face was the most relaxed she had ever seen it, the laugh lines around his eyes smoothed away, lips slightly parted – not even a twitch of his eyelids. Pepper had pulled away reluctantly, forcing herself to accept that he wouldn’t be waking up today — and then, a thin line of blue light had moved across his chest, pulsing out from under the bandages, circling under his left pectoral muscle, streaming down his abdomen — and chased by similar yellow, green, red, orange, and purple glowing lines.

Everyone had been stumped by the lights, though Stephen had correlated them to unusual spikes in Tony’s brain activity. No adverse effects had been identified, no harm seemed to be done by the streaks of light flowing under Tony’s skin every so often, but Pepper had been permanently on edge since their arrival.

They hadn’t gone away when she had brought Tony home to the lakehouse, Morgan’s squeal of delight at odds with her very careful stroking of what remained of Tony’s goatee, her compromise with Pepper agreed upon to avoid Morgan enveloping him in a bear hug. Green light had slipped across his right cheek, so bright for a moment that Pepper could see the arch of bone above, and then it had faded. Morgan’s brown eyes had widened, she had looked over her shoulder at Pepper, but hadn’t asked any questions.

Sometimes Pepper woke to a yellow and red pulse of light against her eyelids, the skin of Tony’s chest so comfortingly warm against her cheek, undeniable proof that he was alive. It didn’t happen often at night, but when it did, it woke Pepper up. She had long grown comfortable with the blue glow of the arc reactor that he still insisted on wearing to bed, but these new colors disturb her sleep. Tony, on the other hand, doesn’t stir when these nighttime spectacles occur. Another change. For as long as she had shared a bed with Tony Stark, Pepper had always woken up a little exhausted, stirred awake several times a night by Tony’s restless sleeping, the jerk of his legs, the quiet cry of alarm that wrenched her heart. Tony sleeps peacefully now — not even peacefully, that implies some sort of emotion. It is like Tony sinks into a coma every single night, occasionally grumpy with Pepper when she pokes him sharply between the ribs to wake him up, to ensure that he’s still there with her, not back in that glass coffin.

She should go and check on him. Pepper closes her eyes, the imagined colors disappearing from the ceiling. With a muffled grunt, she heaves herself out of bed, grimacing at the chill of the floor against her bare feet, enduring it for a fraction of a second before sliding her feet into her well-worn slippers. She reaches the door of their bedroom, cocking her head and listening. The house that Tony had built for them with his bare hands is silent, not a creature was stirring — which is quite remarkable, considering that today is Christmas Eve. Well, it had been when Pepper had gone to bed. Morgan had only committed to getting into bed once Tony had promised her that they would begin the present spectacular at 6:00 a.m. sharp. He had even set an alarm for her.

Pepper creeps down the hall towards Morgan’s bedroom, the faint orange light from her nightlight spilling out from the space where the door had been left ajar. Carefully, Pepper pushes the door open and peeks in on her daughter. The first thing she notices is that Morgan’s Christmas stocking, the fabric decorated with different breeds of dogs wearing Santa hats, is propped against the end of her bed. Tony had been here, Pepper realizes, for she had forgotten to bring Morgan’s stocking upstairs once she had finished stuffing it with presents. She wonders, as she leans against the doorframe and watches their daughter sleep, if Tony had woken up suddenly in the night and realized that the Christmas magic would be ruined if Morgan did not fully believe that Santa had slunk into her bedroom and left her a stocking with way too many presents (Tony had not been able to help himself at Target).

When Pepper had first started working for Tony, his approach to Christmas had confused her, his reckless joy, his complete diffusion and enforcement of the holiday spirit in friends and employees — until she had seen the hour blocked off in his schedule on December 16th: _visit Dad and Mamma._ An annual event that he never missed. His parents had died around Christmastime — if he wasn’t frantically hanging lights and tinsel around his home, he was drinking until he blacked out. The first time Pepper had ever seen Tony cry had been on the night of her third December 16th with Stark Industries, he had called her as she was having dinner — drunk, but begging her to come over, telling her that he couldn’t stand to be alone tonight, that he needed someone there to keep him from doing something stupid. Terrified, Pepper had gone 20 miles over the speed limit to get to Tony’s Malibu mansion, which had looked haunted, the expansive windows dark, empty like the eyes of a corpse. She had held him as he sobbed, had tried to convince him that it wasn’t his fault that his parents had died, that he couldn’t have changed anything.

Those December 16ths were fortunately left behind in the past. Tony had given up alcohol at the start of Pepper’s pregnancy, and but for a few brief tumbles over the years, he had managed to stay on the wagon. It has been six months since Tony woke up — they’ve had friends over for drinks and dinner since — but in the past, Tony’s gaze would linger on the glasses of wine or bottles of beer with obvious yearning. Now, Pepper has to remind him to eat and drink more than she ever had to do in the past. It’s like he doesn’t feel the need, like his brain has much larger concerns than keeping his body nourished and healthy.

Whatever problem currently occupying his brain hadn’t stopped him tonight from taking a massive bite out of the chocolate chip cookie Morgan had left on the kitchen counter for Santa Claus, of course. Pepper lingers by the plate, resting her forearms on the marble countertop. While Tony isn’t in the kitchen now, he had been. The coffee in the pot is still steaming, and there’s a half-drunk mug by the sink. Pepper picks it up, smiling slightly when she sees which one he had chosen to store his late-night caffeine jolt. It had been a Christmas present to Tony from Pepper and Morgan a few years back, the mug decorated with photographs of their family. To think, this mug could have been just another memento of her dead husband. Pepper shudders, setting the mug down — she has got to stop thinking like this.

Multi-colored lights glint on the glass fronts of the framed photographs hanging in the hallway leading to the living room, but Pepper happens to know those lights are from the Christmas tree, not glowing beacons issuing from Tony. Absentmindedly, she dumps Tony’s coffee in the sink, rinses it out, and places the mug in the dishwasher. She flicks the kitchen lights off as she leaves, padding down the hallway, the scent of fir becoming stronger as she nears their obscenely over-decorated living room. It’s as bright as the surface of the sun, that’s true, but it makes Tony happy.

Pepper glances down as she passes the couch, expecting to find Tony lying on the floor under the Christmas tree, staring up at all of the lights. A holiday hobby of his that had resulted in complete wipe-outs in the past, with Pepper tripping over his outstretched legs, sent sprawling to the floor, Tony waking with a surprised grunt.

She sits on the arm of the couch, staring at the towering Fraser fir, the white and multi-colored lights burning brightly, their tight radiations expanding the longer Pepper stares at them. Of course, there had also been some very good times spent under Christmas trees with Tony Stark. The first Christmas they spent together as a couple, they had camped out on the floor of the living room wrapped in flannel blankets and each other, the only sounds in the room being their desperate murmurings of the other’s name, and the waves outside as they crashed against the cliffs.

An ornament catches her eye, white plaster almost hidden towards the back of the tree. Pepper reaches out to grab it, nudging it out from behind the branches obscuring it. With a soft sigh, her fingers brush over the imprint of an infant’s foot, the date _May 29, 1970_ carefully scratched into the clay in Maria Stark’s handwriting. A similar ornament featuring the footprint of Morgan Stark has pride of place at the front of the tree. With a slight frown, she plucks Tony’s ornament from the branch, moving to hang it next to Morgan’s.

Stepping back, she cocks her head again, listening intently. She could ask FRIDAY, but Pepper is positive that Tony isn’t in the house. That really leaves only one place left for him to be in the middle of the night.

Pepper holds her breath as she pulls the front door closed behind her, the top hinge has a tendency to squeak, and Morgan is a light sleeper (like her father had been) — the last thing she needs is Morgan bounding down the stairs, unable to slide down the bannister only because of the garland wrapped around it, crowing at the top of her lungs about presents.

It’s freezing outside, the air frigid in her lungs, she can practically feel them freeze with each inhalation. Pepper wraps her arms around herself, hands rubbing at her upper arms through the flannel of her pajama top — she should go back inside and put on a coat. There’s snow on the ground, too, a fresh few inches that Tony will shovel tomorrow with requests of hot chocolate and sex as rewards — not necessarily in that order. She glances over at the garage off to the side of the driveway, expecting to see the faint imprint left behind by Tony’s boots, but there’s nothing.

It doesn’t necessarily surprise her. Tony had not been in the workshop since before — well, before he had died. Another difference, this one almost incomprehensible. Tony builds, he tinkers, he creates — it’s just what he does, it’s a part of him — particularly when it comes to building new suits. While he wears the arc reactor still, Pepper has a feeling its more of a comfort thing, like a security blanket that could transform into a one-man army. Of course, he still tinkers — but with household appliances, or with Morgan’s LEGO sets — a month ago, Pepper had caught him inspecting a holo-schematic of her Rescue suit, a thoughtful expression on his face. Whatever update or change he had been considering, he hadn’t made — she had crept out to the garage last week, had put the Rescue suit on, asking FRIDAY to inform her of any changes. None.

The snow crunches beneath the rubber soles of her slippers, her teeth starting to chatter despite the frantic rubbing of her hands against her arms. Panic is just starting to flow through her, where could he have gone? The truck is parked in the driveway, as is the Audi — he couldn’t have gone walking to the village in this cold, it’s a forty minute walk at the best of times. What if something’s happened? What if he took off in the suit, to — well, to… To do whatever it is that those lights under his skin want him to do? Then, she catches sight of the faintest imprint in the snow ahead of her, skirting around their sad looking garden, fruits and vegetables long-since harvested. Jogging, her feet shifting loosely in her slippers, Pepper follows the trail towards the lake.

There he is. Christ, there he is, right in front of her. Tony stands motionless in front of the lake, the water lapping over his bare feet, his body so tense that he could be a statue. Snow is melting on his shoulders, he’s not even wearing a shirt, clad only in his pajama pants. She could, if she wanted, trail her fingers over his back, and with an anatomy textbook in hand, identify each muscle. The lights are back.

They are brighter than ever, they make Pepper’s eyes water as she advances towards him, watching the almost perverse stream of red down the column of his spine, the waves of green, yellow, orange, purple, blue flowing from the red around his sides, over his shoulders — like he’s their goddamn Christmas tree. Her lungs scream for air, but she can’t breathe, she doesn’t want to make a sound.

Steeling herself, Pepper reaches out and presses her right hand between his shoulder blades, just below the nape of his neck.

“Tony?” It’s barely more than a whisper, the fear in her voice evident. His skin is warm against her palm, he could be feverish — she knows if her fingers brush to the right, the metal of his arm will be frigid. Instead, she presses her hand harder against his back, swallowing as orange light flares under her hand — Pepper quickly running through the Infinity Stones to identify its match — Soul.

Slowly, she feels the tension fade from his muscles, hears him sigh, watches the lights of the Infinity Stones converge together and disappear under the metal of his arm. Stiffly, he turns to face her, feet kicking up cold lake water that soaks through the hems of her pajama pants. Pepper stifles a shriek. His eyes — the warm brown that had sent butterflies through her when she had first held his gaze over twenty years ago — that still send butterflies through her — is gone. In those now jet-black depths, she sees stars — sees a whole galaxy, not their own — alien, cold, unexplored.

Tony blinks, the stars and blackness fading slowly, until he’s looking at her with those well-loved brown eyes, but there’s terror there instead of relief or love.

“Pepper,” his voice is hoarse, teeth chattering as he starts to shudder, body suddenly aware that he is standing at the edge of the lake with fresh snow glistening in his greying hair, snowmelt trickling down his back.

“Pepper.” His arms wrap around her, pulling her into a tight hug, the metal of his prosthetic biting cold through her shirt — she realizes that he’s shaking because he’s scared just as much as he’s cold, his face pressing against her neck, the scratch of his goatee and the uneven surface of his scars both intimately familiar and completely unknown.

His voice is muffled against her neck, but Pepper understands him easily enough, she’s been thinking the exact same thing since getting him back.

“Something is wrong with me.”

**Author's Note:**

> i have seriously not watched a marvel movie since i saw endgame soooo apologies for anything that's wrong, like i know that strange isn't supposed to mess with time buuuut this fic is totally self-satisfying. because i don't allow myself nice things, naturally letting tony live after endgame would have consequences...


End file.
